


Asenion

by Sidney Sussex (SidneySussex)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:18:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidneySussex/pseuds/Sidney%20Sussex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.<br/>2. A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.<br/>3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asenion

**Author's Note:**

> _I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Marvel Entertainment, LLC. The Three Laws of Robotics and the world in which I play here are the property of Isaac Asimov (with apologies)._
> 
> _If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome. (And yeah, I totally mix and mash up the comics and the movie 'verse, and play around with timelines a little. Sorry.)_

"It's a stupid warbot," the boy says. "It doesn't even fight."

"Then what can it do?" the man asks, indulgent. He doesn't believe children so young should have automatons capable of violence, but as long as they follow the Three Laws, it's unfortunately legal.

The man doesn't believe in the Three Laws, either. Programming is easy to corrupt.

" _Nothin'_ ," the boy says with emphasis, aiming a kick at a metallic leg. "It's just for parts, see?"

"Well," says the man, "how much do you want for your parts?"

The boy names his price and is astonished when the man doesn't even try to haggle.

"What's its name?" the man wants to know.

"Doesn't have one, does it? Just for parts."

"You must have called it something when you got it."

"Naw," the boy says, "not a stupid warbot that can't even fight."

The man checks the serial number, 4769-HKI.

"A Hawkeye model, huh?" he says to it conversationally. "I guess you'll pick up a name sometime."

The broken warbot stands in the market plaza, silent.

* * *

The man, it seems, is a sort of engineer. Not by trade, certainly; he lacks the tools of a rich man, and his hands speak to a different kind of experience. But he takes the chestplate off the warbot when he gets it home, examines connections, studies dipswitches and capacitors.

He leaves for work and is gone several days. When he returns, he armours himself with anti-static wristbands and delves into his project.

The first thing he restores is motion. "Go on, then, Hawkeye," he says, "show me what you've got."

The warbot doesn't move.

He checks to make sure all of its receptors work; the sound capacity is down to maybe twenty percent, so he cleans the connectors and re-wires them with fine copper filigree.

"Can you move?" he asks it, knowing it can only answer by actions.

It nods.

"You must have a demonstration subroutine," he says.

It nods.

"Show me."

It shakes its head, just once.

The man removes a power connector, resumes his work.

* * *

It's perhaps halfway through his project when he removes the faceplate and reaches in to repair the visual systems.

Luckily, he stops before he touches anything, because the visual systems do not need repair.

He's never seen connections so fine, wires spun so neatly and packaged so close inside the ocular constructs. No space is wasted; there are no tiny blinking lights to indicate functionality, no blind spot where a single cable unifies the processes. Instead, this set of receptors is each wired individually, by a tool so fine the man has never even seen one. And this man has seen many things.

Never a warbot like this, though.

"Were you built for battle?" he asks it.

It cannot respond, or chooses not to.

* * *

Finally, he seals the last remaining joint, solders the last remaining connection. The warbot's physical functions should be at full capacity now, and he's ready to give it a brain.

Or rather, to return its brain; with the warbot, he received a battered positronic chip that required careful cleaning and repair. He's unfamiliar with the patterns and the chip lacked a brand. He is aware of the risks such a thing entails, and the warbot is restrained and monitored as he places one gentle hand behind its head and slots the brain chip into place.

The warbot blinks, but then again, it had that capability before.

"Hello, Hawkeye," the man says.

"Hello," it says back.

* * *

There has never been such a warbot – no, a _robot_ , the man tells himself, because it grows more obvious with every word spoken that this is not an instrument of war. It won't speak of its origins; perhaps it doesn't know, perhaps it is forbidden, perhaps to discuss such things would break one of the Laws. In any case, one does not reason with a robot, and the man receives no answer only once.

It speaks of other things, though, and it's as if an automaton brings light into the man's life where no human being ever has. They joke with one another, tease one another. The man comes home at night to find the robot missing, only to be ambushed from the ceiling or a tree; the robot finds a gift left at the charging station one morning, not a blaster or a railgun meant for war, but a small, ceremonial bow with delicate arrows.

The robot's aim, it seems, is all that connects it to its original purpose. It does not miss.

Sometimes the man worries about the robot; automatons should not be capable of the thought processes this one can exercise. More often, though, he permits himself to subsume the worries in simple enjoyment. Sentient, sapient even, his robot is not malicious.

And he finds he enjoys the company.

* * *

"You need a name," he tells it one day.

"Why?" it wants to know.

"Well… all robots have names."

"I like Hawkeye," it says. "That's what you call me."

* * *

They begin to leave the house together. It isn't unusual to travel with a robot, but this is a very different robot than most.

"You'd better not speak," he warns it. "You're not like other robots."

"Why is that a problem?"

"People are afraid of things that are different."

It considers that for a while, as the man prepares for their errands.

"Do I frighten you?"

"No," he says.

"Why not?"

"I know you."

They're out for several hours, doing the mundane maintenance that every life requires – groceries, the courthouse, the bank – and when they return, the robot stands in the doorway to the workshop.

"You don't frighten me," it says.

The thought has never even crossed his mind.

"I like you," it says, then lets the door to the workshop fall shut behind it.

* * *

The man knows that robots are not supposed to feel emotion.

This robot may.

All robots are capable of saying such things; _I like you_ is one of the many phrases with which most are programmed for standard socialization. The difference, though, is that his robot is honest. It has never lied to him, and robots are certainly capable of lying.

The man is not well-liked, in the mean. His career, his choices, his solitary lifestyle; none is conducive to close friendships, nor has he made the effort to engender them. No one particularly dislikes him, either, beyond mild irritation at his workplace. No one really notices him at all.

_I like you_ , the robot said.

It's possible that it does.

* * *

"Hawkeye," he says early the next morning, deactivating the charging station. "We need to have a discussion."

"We have discussions all the time."

"This one is serious."

The robot settles at his workbench, comfortable in a seated position on one of the stools. "Okay." It's learning colloquialisms, speaking more and more like a human each day.

"What do you mean when you say you like me?"

"I didn't know that was ambiguous."

"Describe it to me."

"I like you," the robot says. "I don't need to devote thought processes to the anticipation of abandonment when I'm with you. I don't need to reserve power for contingencies. I am capable of full reliance on you, and that makes me function more efficiently. You make me better. Isn't that what liking is?"

To a robot, the man supposes, it is.

Then again, he thinks, how is that so different from what it might mean to a man? When he is with his robot, he doesn't fear that it will leave him. He doesn't worry about danger, not because he knows it will follow the First Law, but because he knows it will choose to protect him, law or no. He can – he _does_ – rely on his robot, and that makes him better, too.

He thinks about that for a long time.

"I like you, Hawkeye," he says, finally.

The robot nods. "I know."

* * *

They're in his workshop again; the robot has sustained some minor damage protecting the man in an altercation. He's repairing it, carefully popping out the dents in the chestplate and replacing the wires beneath.

"My name is Hawkeye," the robot says, and he nods absently. He's long since given up on insisting that it should be called anything else. It's comfortable now, familiar.

"I don't know your name," it continues.

The man has to stop and think. He knows the robot doesn't read his paperwork – it's the one flaw in its design that he's uncovered; it has an _aversion_ or something, and he's never been able to get it to help him with the paperwork at all.

But how is it that, in all their conversations about naming it, his own has never come up?

He thought the robot simply chose not to use it.

"It's Phil," he says, feeling a strange rush of anticipation at hearing it echoed back to him in that oddly-drawling metallic voice.

"Phil," says the robot, and then, slowly, "I like you, Phil."

"I like you too, Hawkeye."

The robot smiles, and Phil feels like maybe he's the one who's been emotionless all this time, so that it feels like he's drowning in it when he realizes – his robot may perhaps be made of metal, welded connectors and flashing diodes, but it is his _friend_.

Phil Coulson is not used to friends, but his robot has never seemed to resent his inadequacies.

He smiles back.


End file.
